Too Many Tissues
I type this from my bed in my apartment in Lesvos in Greece, from which I have barely moved in the past few days despite the bright blue glory of the weather and the fact that the Mediterranean laps at the shore but a few blocks from where I sit. In fact the weather outside these two somewhat stuffy rooms matters little because I am under the weather.
Again.
Of course I am better than I was yesterday, if I may assuage the fears of all those concerned by my mother’s Facebook post, but in this case “better” is a relative term. I no longer have a fever of 103 degrees Fahrenheit, that broke at about 1 pm yesterday and woke me up in a wave of sweat. I am no longer so weak that I could barely sit up, though I still think half of that weakness was because I hadn’t eaten yet and it was 10 am. I’m sure I terrified poor Sandy, who had come to check on me thinking I just had a headache and instead saw me almost tip over onto the floor. (Sorry for the scare, Sandy. And thanks again for the soup.) She promptly called my mother who called a nurse who was able to tell me what medicines to take.
Now, today I only have a cough, a nose too clogged to use for its created purpose of breathing, and a mound of tissues that continues to grow. And a profound lack of desire to go outside at all. And extraordinarily slow reflexes.
This might all sound whiny–and yes, I do love to complain when bogged down in Tissue Mountain–but I have a point. Did you realize that I was also sick the first two weeks I was here? That sickness had me in abject misery after pulling off the one glorious day of full self-defence classes, which I swear I will write about properly soon.
I’ve been here for four weeks now, and significantly sick for three of those four weeks. This is irritating because, obviously, I’m not here to be sick. I’m here to help, which I can’t do if I’m sick.
Also, Arabic is a difficult language. You might have heard this, or experienced this. Another important fact is that there isn’t just one type of Arabic. Oh, no, each country has its own special type of Arabic, and it’s not nearly so benign a difference as a strong Southern, British, or Australian accent. No, this is more along the lines of Portuguese vs Spanish, as my parents tell me (I unfortunately know neither of those languages).
At the best of times, my Tunisian Arabic is rough. I’m good, but not fluent. When I have to communicate in another type of Arabic, I do a lot of apologizing for not knowing the word, as I explained in my last post. When I’m sick… I might as well forget it.
I’m not the only one who’s nearly constantly sick, in fact, this seems fairly common here. Poor Tim, Sandy’s husband and co-volunteer coordinator, has also been constantly sick (so has Sandy, for that matter).
All that to say, pray for the health of both volunteers and refugees here on the island and around the world. It’s not as trite as it sounds, because God truly knows refugees have been through enough already, and volunteers can’t help as much as we’d like if we’re laying in bed, exhausted, surrounded by tissues and breathing through our mouths.
BONUS: Shooting Judas
DID YOU KNOW that the Greek Orthodox Church celebrates Easter a week later than the rest of the world?
This would not be too odd in itself, more of an interesting tidbit on the back of a cereal box or in a trivia game, but for the singularly bizarre tradition I experienced last Sunday. In the tiny town of Panagiouda on the edge of the teeny island of Lesvos that’s far too close to Turkey to be so inexplicably Greek, they shoot Judas at 12 o’clock midnight at the beginning of Greek Easter Sunday.
That is, they dress up a sawdust dummy like a hated politician, call it Judas, truss it to a tree next to the harbor, and–when the clock strikes midnight–proceed to set fire to the tree, set off fireworks that don’t stop until the next midnight, and riddle the dummy with bullets until it’s unrecognizable as anything, much less Judas Iscariot.
It is quite the family event, and a horrifyingly fascinating cultural experience.